


Not All That Glitters, Book Two

by frankannestein



Series: Sounding the Crystal Bell [2]
Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Sex, F/M, Fantasy, Girls with Guns, Guns, POV Original Female Character, POV Reno (Compilation of FFVII), Reno (Compilation of FFVII)-centric, Romance, Swords & Sorcery, Turks (Compilation of FFVII)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22883596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankannestein/pseuds/frankannestein
Summary: Finding love in the only person who knows everything about you is supposed to bring a happy ending, but they are anything but ordinary. Can two non-traditional people live a traditional happily ever after?
Relationships: Reno (Compilation of FFVII)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Sounding the Crystal Bell [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644865
Kudos: 5





	1. Of Reno

**Author's Note:**

> I never meant to create a sequel to Book One. However, one of my re-viewers said something that, years later, I couldn’t get out of my head: The ending left my readers wondering what was going to happen to Reno and Cristobel.
> 
> And the truth was, back then, I didn’t know.
> 
> This storyline is original, and takes place sometime after the events of “Dirge of Cerberus.” The timing itself isn’t important, nor is the city of Vanaheim and its mayor, both of which I made up.
> 
> I’d like to think I’ve learned a thing or two since Book One all those years ago. I used Book Two as a writing exercise. For the first three chapters, I did not use Reno’s name except in dialog; the same goes for the next three, except it was Cris’s name I avoided. The last chapter differs in that the first half uses their names freely, and the second half eschews names altogether. I wanted to make the story very up close and personal by that point.
> 
> I wrote each section of Book Two to the lyrics and music of three songs, as follows: 3 Doors Down “So I Need You,” Yellowcard “Only One,” and Atreyu “When Two Are One.”
> 
> ***Book One and Book Two are available for purchase from Amazon at https://tinyurl.com/author-frankannestein. The price covers printing the book - I receive no royalties from sales!***

His PHS rang.

He didn’t move. Every part of him hurt. His head. His stomach. His teeth. His damn eyeballs.

Muffled by his pocket as it was, he couldn’t name the ringtone. It went on for a full thirty seconds, sending stabbing pains through his aching head, and then shut off. The caller gave him exactly six seconds before trying again.

“You gonna get that?” Rude asked the fourth time this happened.

For an answer, he fished the buzzing PHS from his jacket and lobbed it at his partner.

It bounced off Rude’s shaved head with a solid thwack – damn it, he’d known it was _her_ calling, why hadn’t he recognized that dippy song? – and landed face-down on the carpet. Rude didn’t react. He lay on the couch with his face buried in a cushion. Rude’s large, brown hand lay near the PHS, lit from underneath as Elena’s ringtone merrily started up again.

Then the door crashed open, admitting Elena herself.

“What are you doing?” she screeched, her cornsilk hair wild, her PHS clutched in one tiny fist, which was poised about a foot from her ear. What had she done, run up all sixty flights of stairs? “Answer your PHS when someone calls, sir!”

She gagged and took quick steps backward, her cuff pressed to her nose, and gasped, “It stinks like alcohol in here!”

He covered his eyes with an arm to block out the light from the hall. “Should have put the privacy lock on, Rude.”

“Sorry,” Rude grunted into the cushion.

“Were you up drinking all night?” Elena asked, softer. Dodging empty bottles and cans, she edged into their hotel room and, mercifully, shut the door behind her. She then slipped the extra key to their room into her wallet. Tseng always made sure they had extra keys. With good reason.

“Chief gave us the night off,” he said. He rolled his throbbing eyes up to watch her approach, upside-down. He lay sprawled on his back on his own couch, but he seemed to be too big, his legs spilling off it at one end. “It’s my birthday.”

She snorted, an obscene sound from such a pixieish face, and crossed her arms across her chest. “It is not, sir. Your birthday is in four days.”

Trust her to know that. It felt good that she did. He held up a hand, toasting her with an invisible glass. “Happy week of my birth.”

“Congratulations,” Rude said, and then made a sound like a bear coughing up a hairball. Laughter.

He snickered, letting his hand drop.

Elena gave a delicate sigh. Brows creased, she pointed at his foot. “Did you know you have a dead lizard wedged under your shoelace?”

“I do?” He sat up so fast his head spun, but even in the darkened room, he could see the sad little corpse. “Huh.”

“How did that happen?” she asked.

“I have no idea.” He started snickering, harder this time. His stomach gave a huge roll, and he lurched off the couch as if he’d been tased.

Elena caught him before he faceplanted on the floor and helped maneuver him upright. “Come on, sir,” she said from somewhere near his armpit, sounding resigned. “Let’s get you to the toilet. We can give the lizard a burial at sea while we’re at it.”

“Congratulations,” Rude said again, but by the time Elena got him through the door and his knees hit the bathroom tiles, his partner was snoring.

“Thanks, Elena,” he whispered before she grabbed his hair to keep it out of the way. Her only answer was to rub his shoulders gently until the worst passed.

* * *

The Turks.

He took his place to the left of the President when Rufus stood, Rude falling into step next to him, Elena and Tseng flanking them from the right. Wearing his customary white suit, President Shinra acted like he couldn’t see them, laughing and shaking hands as he closed yet another deal. His bodyguards were there to impress, dressed in black, tough, silent, and very, very deadly.

Everyone knew of the Turks.

Rushing to shake off the hangers-on, Rufus made it outside. He stepped into the wind on the shiny new skyscraper’s roof, his fair hair gilded by the sun. The new mayor of Vanaheim had followed them out with a small retinue. He called out to the President, obviously reluctant to let him go. Sloe-eyed Tseng fell back with Rude. Unobtrusively protecting Rufus Shinra.

Nothing must ever happen to the President. It was their sworn duty as Turks. Accepting the invitation to Vanaheim, one of the new cities that had taken root after the planet-wide cure of geostigma and that now rivaled Midgar Edge, had been a risky undertaking. There was something wrong in Vanaheim. Corruption, glaring at them from beneath every polished surface, through the cracks of every gleaming street. Vanaheim had sprung up overnight like a forest of concrete mushrooms. Where had they gotten the materials? The manpower? Did they think no one would notice? President Shinra had agreed to come here at Reeve Tuesti’s request. The WRO, focused as it was on rebuilding the world, could not have a hand in tearing part of it down, no matter how small or polluted a part. That was where the Turks came in.

He jogged over to the waiting helicopter emblazoned with the Shin-Ra Inc. logo, a sight that never failed to fill his chest with pride. He swung himself aboard and put on his headset. He was surprised when Elena joined him at the controls. Rude’s chunky headset, when she put it on, made her look tinier than ever.

“What do you think?” she asked as he started the engine. Her eyes, childlike and blue, were steady on his face. Although she was no longer the newest Turk, she still looked up to him. Even after witnessing his weakest moments, to her, he was one of her mentors. To her, his judgment was paramount. It had been that way since the day he had eliminated Don Corneo. What a satisfying job that had been.

Considering his answer, he leaned back, lounging in his seat, and glanced out the window. The familiar thrum of the rotors was soothing, and he thought, if the mayor detained the President much longer, that he might get away with a nap. The windshield was tinted so dark no one could see inside.

Drowsily, he watched the mayor cycle through rehearsed roles and faces: conspiratorial, businesslike, aloof, pleading. The mayor finally dropped the façade, sweat standing out on his forehead, when the President failed to fall for any of them.

He smiled. He thought this part was funny. Guilt always made them say too much.

Then he sighed, his humor fading. Damn. To be this hungover and still have so much work to do. Still, he preferred work over the blank emptiness that was time off. Last night, the bartender in the swanky hotel where the President had been set up had been a strawberry blonde with curls, curves, and a pretty face, though her eyes had been wrong. Blue instead of the green he craved. Which was why he and Rude had finished their bender by themselves up in the room.

A corner of his mouth quirked up. He knew what she would think of him losing control like that. What she would say about him getting fall-down drunk. Again. How she would tell him how lucky he was to have someone like Elena to take care of him.

As if he needed her to tell him that. He was a Turk, and Turks never faced the nightmares alone. They were closer than a family, partners until death, trusting each other with their lives.

But not her. She was something else, something special in a way that he couldn’t explain or reconcile. He knew everything about her. Especially how it would feel to hold her in spite of her harsh words, to kiss her despite her disappointment in him. To make angry love late into the night, gradually earning her forgiveness. The way they always did. Time and time again.

He turned the crooked smile on Elena. He had an answer to her question.

“Looks like we’ll be working overtime tonight.”

* * *

A click, loud as a gunshot in the darkened office building. The door swung open, black on black, the waft of air smelling of industrial-strength cleaner. Everything was so brand new it was unreal. Even second-hand Edge had been built with the wreckage from Midgar, but not this place. Vanaheim was pristine, untouched territory.

With the whisper of his shoes on commercial carpeting, he stepped over the slumped bodies of the security guards into the mayor’s office, Rude on his heels.

Making a big show of it, President Shinra had left that afternoon with Tseng, Elena, and the others for Midgar Edge. As usual, no one had bothered giving the uniformed Turks a headcount. No one had noticed two were missing. If they had, they would have hired mercenaries, professional killers, to guard the entrances instead of those poor, unprepared saps on the government payroll.

With a pencil light between his teeth, Rude crouched in one corner of the lavish office and levered his backpack to the floor.

Leaving Rude to his work, he made a beeline for the expensive, state-of-the-art computer sitting on the opulent desk and powered it up. He then slipped a thumb drive loaded with one of Tseng’s specials into the port and used it to boot the machine, then to decrypt the passcode. He didn’t have to understand how it worked; Tseng’s invasive coding did all the work.

Several terabytes of data began downloading to the drive after a few rehearsed taps of the keyboard. He watched the images flash across the screen for a moment. Next, he cut open the locks of the filing cabinets to pillage their contents while the program did its job.

“Illegal gambling,” he said, opening a few of the paper files and skimming their contents before he stuffed them in his backpack. “The boss was right. It’s a den. That’s how they put all this together so quickly. The yakuza’s involved.”

He laughed in derision, reading more files. The yakuza. Wannabe thugs and drug lords. Small potatoes. No one could ever replicate the Turks.

Rude paused in the middle of capping a bundle of wires, his silver earrings catching the light of his flashlight as he looked up. “And the manpower?”

“Geostigma survivors.” He’d reached personnel files, complete with black and white photos clipped inside. He turned one sideways, trying to make sense of the grainy image. “The ones that lost limbs or their minds before the cure. Slave labor. Mostly adults, but they’re also using little kids. That’s sick.”

He liked kids. They could be a pain in the ass, but they were also hilarious. No boundaries, no filters. No working understanding of physics. He admired that.

“Do you want to wait, contact the Director before we do this?” Rude asked, indicating the masterpiece of C-4 and the detonators he had connected to it and other, similar deposits around the building. Rude hadn’t armed the trigger yet.

“Nah,” he answered, snapping the last manila folder shut. “We have a job to do, and these guys,” he held up the packet of files and then shoved it in with the others, “they’re kept in a separate compound. The only things going up here are the yakuza.”

“You sure?” Rude asked in his slow voice.

Was he? He eyed the C-4, then the mayor’s ill-gotten riches glittering in the thin beam of light, and a slow grin spread across his face. Bringing the scum of Gaia to its knees. That’s what they were here for.

He loved his job.

Tossing a casual wave over his shoulder, he turned to the window and kicked it open.

“Blow it.”

* * *

Whiskey coated the sides of the glass when he put it down, the alcohol burning his throat like her perfume did, sometimes. He admired the glitter of the lights on the crystal, shining in the amber liquid, throwing golden shapes on the polished mahogany bar. Directly above his head, a flat screen TV blared at top volume over the noise of conversation, closed captioning scrolling a good minute after the sound: After the inexplicable bombings in Vanaheim, Mayor Hoenir was taken into custody over allegations of smuggling, child labor, and a laundry list of further felonies. The bar’s patrons were discussing the scandal in loud, superior voices.

Smirking, he took a swig of whiskey. Just another day on the job. Those yakuza upstarts would think twice before treading into Turk territory again.

Speaking of the Turks, as one, he sat alone at bars. Usually. But a man next to him suddenly gave a low whistle, punched his shoulder, and said, “Hey, buddy, get a load of that.”

Tilting his glass to hear the ice clink, he glanced in the mirror behind the bar. Then he just sat there, staring at the dark reflections, drink forgotten.

Because Cristobel had walked in, and every single heterosexual man in the bar had noticed.

Her hair, red-gold in the intimate lighting, hung loosely in thick kinks and spirals all the way down her back. Her dress – the only thing he thought of it was that it was red, and appeared to be at least three sizes too small – left nearly the entire length of her long legs bare. She paused near the door, her eyes darting through the knots of people until she found him in the mirror, hunched over his glass, struck as dumb as the dude next to him. Then she smiled.

The whole world lurched, its axis on a dangerous tilt. When he stood, he kept one hand on the bar, the other in his pocket, to keep from getting knocked down by the familiar tug-of-war inside him.

The Turks.

And her.

They didn’t exist in the same sphere.

Sadly, those were her words, not his, but she was right. His world was split into two hemispheres, constantly trying to fly off in different directions.

The Turks. And her.

“Damn,” the dude next to him muttered, watching Cristobel approach. “I’d tap that.”

“No. You won’t.” He took ten gil from his pocket and set it on the bar, crooking his fingers at the bartender for a beer. He put a hand on the dude’s shoulder, squeezed perhaps harder than necessary, and leaned close long enough to say under his breath, “That one is mine.”

Then he left the beer on the bar and went out to meet her.

“I’ve been watching this story develop the last couple of days,” she greeted him, gesturing at the TV. The newscast was still playing, rolling through footage of the bombing, the arrests, the discovery and release of the lame, the sick, and the orphaned slaves. “Was that you?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. He curled an arm around her waist. “Proud of me?”

“Very. But tell me something,” Cristobel said. She pointed below the TV. “What was that?”

“Huh? Oh –” His fingers sought the back of his head as he glanced back at the bar. The dude was staring at them, mouth agape, the free beer untouched behind him. Condensation rolled down the sides of the glass, cutting tracks in the rime of frost. “That was . . .”

He trailed off, and then looked down at her. “What’s this about?”

He ran his fingers lightly up her side, feeling the thin, slippery material of her dress, the warmth of her skin through it.

She tilted her head and pushed away from him. Then she turned on the spot, showing it off from all angles, and he wasn’t the only one checking her out. Her eyes were smiling, though her lips were set in a pout. “Don’t you like it?”

He smirked and put both arms around her. He wanted her close. He felt so much better when she was close. “I like it a lot,” he murmured into her hair.

As a universal rule, bars at happy hour were noisy and crowded. There were people everywhere, eating, drinking, laughing, shouting, passing around them to visit Gold Saucer’s amusement park, or the theater, the casino, the races. None of that mattered because she was there.

Leaning her head against his shoulder, she giggled. “I thought you might. Happy birthday.”

He didn’t say anything else. Much as he liked her skimpy outfit, it worried him. He knew better. He was aware of what Cristobel been through – what the Chief had put her through – and knew the promise she’d made to herself.

“You’re a Turk. What’s a Turk doing here?” a rough, belligerent voice demanded, breaking in on his thoughts.

Cristobel stiffened in his arms.

He glared at the dude at the bar, who had recovered and was glaring right back through narrowed eyes.

Cristobel leaned around him, for he’d unconsciously tucked her to his side. Protecting her. Ha, ha.

“We’re here to have a nice night,” she said sweetly. She went up on her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Really, don’t you have anything else to wear?” she hissed in his ear.

There it was. The disappointment. He looked down at his black jacket and white shirt. Because, no. He didn’t. He was a Turk.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asked in a quiet voice instead of answering.

“Definitely,” she said, giving him another peck.

* * *

He had no idea what time it was, except that he was pretty sure it was still his birthday.

It was dark and hot in the hotel room. He leaned his head back, slouching further into the armchair he’d somehow managed to stumble into, although he didn’t really remember how. With Cristobel’s moans spiking dangerously close to climax, he ran his hands down her back, over the slippery dress bunched at her waist, to caress her hips. Then lower, slipping along smooth, muscled thighs. He stopped at her knees, wrapping his hands around them to give her extra leverage.

He was trapped, helpless beneath her, surrendering himself completely to her.

Unaware, she cried out sharply, invisible in the dark. He loved that sound, loved the press of her hands against his chest, the trembling in her legs, the smell of her hair across his face.

When, exactly, had he fallen so hard for her?

* * *

“Background noise,” she said, tossing him a grin while she hunted up the TV remote and pushed the power button.

She’d flipped on the lights, revealing their surroundings for the first time, but she hadn’t straightened the red dress properly, and he found the sight of the barest curve of backside peeking beneath the hem much more interesting than yet another hotel room. Like a dog on a leash – a willing, euphoric dog – he followed it as it sashayed over to the mini bar.

“Want something to drink?” she asked over the news anchors on the TV.

He wound his arms around her from behind, burying his nose in her neck to breathe her in. “What do you have in mind?”

For a moment, she pressed back against him. Then she twisted out of his reach with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew in her hands. “Just this. Would you turn on the air, please? It’s stuffy in here.”

He did as she asked, stepping around discarded clothing to reach the thermostat. Their shoes, his jacket, her panties. A familiar trail of impatience across an unfamiliar floor.

Something tightened unpleasantly in his chest. How long could they keep this up? This on again, off again relationship between two people who couldn’t seem to fit each other into their daily lives?

“I’m glad you could come tonight,” he said. He claimed a spot on the sofa in front of the TV when she padded over barefoot, two glasses of zinfandel in hand. She gave him one, and then curled up next to him, resting against his chest with her feet tucked under her.

“Me too,” she said. She sipped her wine. “It wasn’t easy to get the time off. I had to find a substitute, and everyone was busy. In the end, I traded class trip chaperone duty with Sophie.”

That right there was the problem, wasn’t it? She was fiercely independent, having made a respectable life for herself in Cosmo Canyon. She’d lost the security of her childhood home as a teenager by the hands of her own parents; he knew that she never wanted to rely on anyone ever again. Her apartment was a place of peace high in the mountain air. They’d had a few good times there, sure, but he would never be more than a guest. His apartment, well – that was out of the question. At least, it was for her. She refused to come to Edge. So they stole moments here and there, meeting in neutral locations, spending their nights on a restaurant dinner and a stay in a hotel. No permanence. No commitment.

“I wish we lived closer to each other,” she murmured, echoing his thoughts. “I miss you when you’re away on jobs.”

“A phone call only does so much,” he agreed, hugging her weight closer. He loved those calls about as much as he hated them.

“Mmm,” she said.

He slept alone so often, with nothing but the sheets to hold him. Sometimes he’d call Cristobel in the middle of the night. Not to talk, but to listen to her breathe. If only there were some other way . . .

Slowly coming down from the endorphin rush, he stared at the twenty-four-hour news coverage, which was still running over the disturbance in Vanaheim, without really seeing it. Once upon a time, he and the Turks had made bigger headlines than that. The only reason this story was getting so much attention was that the world was quiet. No more Sephiroth or Jenova. No more mako energy, or wars for SOLDIER to fight, or the sickness that had been killing their children. No more crazy scientists bent on ruling the world.

Cristobel played with his shirt, undoing the buttons one by one while she watched the news. Absently, he rubbed the skin of her shoulder under one of the slinky straps, enjoying the feel of her hand tracing circles on his stomach. They were so comfortable together. He remembered the day he’d found out she wasn’t a boy, and how, ever since, he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her. She was the sort of person that glowed.

Wine glass empty, he began speaking some of his thoughts aloud as she turned her head and pressed her lips to his skin.

“I miss the old days,” he said. “It's a shame Vanaheim was such a small time job. If it had been something bigger, like Deepground –”

She paused with her fingers on his fly, failing to unzip it, and he noticed that more than the tone of her voice. “What do you mean? That saving those children isn’t good enough, that you need a global threat to have job fulfillment?”

“No, not that, exactly,” he said, his eyes on the television. Yeah, not so long ago, the Turks would have owned the broadcasts. If it had been something bigger, she might have been there in Vanaheim, too.

Then he sat up, excitement coursing through him, jolting her out of his lap. That was it! That would solve all of their problems!

“Reno?” she asked from the floor, startled.

“You could join the Turks!” he blurted.

There was no inflection whatsoever in her quiet voice when she said, “. . . What.”

It didn’t matter. He was so sure. This felt so right. He took Cristobel by the shoulders, speaking at top speed. “Join the Turks! Think about it, Cris. You have materia. You’re a great mage. We could fight together again –”

“You want me to work for Rufus Shinra?” she interrupted in tones of frostbite.

“Well, yeah.” He deflated.

“For Tseng? Are you stupid?”

It had sounded like a good idea in his head, but as she wrenched herself out of his grasp and got to her feet, it dawned on him that it was the exact opposite.

“That is one of the most idiotic things you’ve ever said,” she snapped. “And that’s saying a lot.”

“Hey,” he said, annoyed. Then, as Cristobel slammed around looking for her things, he let it go. “Look, I’m sorry. It was stupid. I didn’t mean it.”

“I can’t believe you would suggest that,” she seethed.

“I just . . .” With a snarl, he ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. Forget it! I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Nothing,” she said. “I don’t want a damn thing from the Turks.”

Now he was angry. There was one memorable night, what felt like a long time ago, when he’d left his PHS on the nightstand, and the Chief had called, and he’d picked up. That fight had been epic. So had the sex. He stood up and strode over to her, backing her into the wall. “Then what the hell do you keep coming around for? I am a Turk, Cristobel. I will always be a Turk.”

She may have given ground, but she wasn’t backing down, and she furiously shoved him. After a short struggle, he captured both of her wrists and held them in one fist above her head. He towered over her, holding her against the wall. Still, her green eyes blazed, undaunted.

“Don’t you understand anything?” she demanded.

“How can I when you don’t explain anything?” he retorted.

“All I want is you!” she shouted. “I want you to be there when I wake up, and when I come home. No one gets me like you do, and I’m tired of being alone.”

“Me? Now who’s stupid? I’m a mess. We aren’t war heroes. We’re the bad guys. You know that! You shouldn’t want me.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You are such an idiot. I love you. You, Reno!”

At that, the world ground to a halt. He forgot about breathing. He forgot about the fight. He made an inarticulate sound deep in his throat and kissed her. Roughly. Desperately. And she, in spite of her pinned hands, kissed him back.

_Good thing the TV’s on,_ he thought, lifting her against the wall so that he could settle her legs around his hips, so she could feel how much he wanted her. How immediate his reaction to what she had said. What she had never said before.

She gasped at the sudden assault, and he grinned.

_This is gonna get loud._

She was there, she was helping, her little hand guiding him when he released her wrist to explore the body beneath the dress. He tasted her throat, her breasts, wincing in a kind of pained pleasure at the burn of perfume in the back of his mouth. Her fists knotted in his hair, hurting him, showing him that she was still mad, but her legs were tightening around his waist. A low groan slipped between his teeth when she started crying out, screaming his name. He moved faster, wanting to follow her down.

She loved him. No matter the mess he was.

She was the only one for him.


	2. Of Cristobel

She would have to leave soon.

Already, her mind was on the trip home, the things she had to do before returning to work.

But for right now . . .

She propped herself up on her elbows. “Hey, you,” she said quietly, in case Reno was sleeping.

He wasn’t. One side of his mouth curled up in the shadow of a smile. Without sitting up, he reached over and moved her hair behind her shoulder, smoothing the matted curls. His breathing remained deep and even as he brushed her arm, lightly as a butterfly, and then he cupped the side of her face. She leaned into his touch, kissing his palm, and his eyes, a muzzy, unfocused blue, slid closed again.

He had such thick, black eyelashes. They lay like bird’s wings against his skin. Fondly, she smiled. She’d always hated that about him. Jealousy was a bitch.

Resting her cheek against his hand, she watched him drift between wakefulness and sleep, his straight, elfin eyebrows tilted up at the outer edges but drawn together pensively in the middle. His ponytail had come loose, impossibly red against his bare chest and the white pillowcase. It was almost as long as hers.

She was going to miss this when she left.

Reno, tall, lanky, and a bit of a slob, was hard not to look at, no matter the size of the crowd. He had a temper, too, but he could be friendly. If he liked you. Briefly, she put her fingertips on one of the red crescents tattooed on his cheekbones. Unusual. Like him.

He felt things so much more strongly than she would have given a man credit for, especially one who was as lazy as he could be. Every reaction was instantaneous. When he saw something he liked, he let everybody know. Likewise, when he saw something he didn’t like, he went after it. Sadistically. Even if his actions meant nightmares later. He was second in command of the Turks, yet the weight of all the lives he had taken – as recently as Vanaheim – never left him.

She knew what that felt like. Reno was right. They were the bad guys, not the heroes.

She lowered his hand to the sheets.

“Happy birthday, Reno,” she whispered.

When she scooted out of bed, his long fingers closed around her wrist. Startled, she looked back.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled. His eyes opened, the blue dark with pain. He had such beautiful eyes.

“Shh,” she said, combing his bangs off his forehead. He was still half asleep. “I’m not mad anymore. It’s okay.”

He rolled onto his side but got stuck, lower body tangled in the sheets. He hugged her around the middle, the top of his head pressed into her belly. “I’m no good when you’re gone,” he said into the blanket. “I need you to be mad at me.”

An empty feeling opened in her stomach. She settled her hands in Reno’s hair, on his back. Poor Elena. He must have lost it again and left quite a mess for his subordinate to clean up.

_Why?_ she wondered. Reno was older than she was by about six years. Why would he need her, or anyone, to take care of him? He’d joined the Turks at a young age. He was good at what he did. What had he done before they’d met? Or in the two years they’d been separated?

She knew the answer to that. Reno had slowly begun falling apart.

Now here he was, holding on for dear life.

Distracting her from her thoughts, his lips moved, hot across her belly, and then his tongue.

Well. She could stay a _little_ longer.

* * *

Gold Saucer was different during the day. There were children everywhere.

Walking down Central Station toward the ropeway, she threw her arms overhead and stretched, feeling pretty damn good. The memory of the red dress was more pleasant than she’d expected. It had been fun, actually. The look on Reno’s face! She giggled. If only she’d been able to bring her phone to snap a photo of that.

A large hand closed around hers. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said airily, twining her fingers with his. They were back to themselves. He carried a single garment bag over his shoulder. She hitched her backpack higher, the daring woman in red returned to her usual slim jeans, long-sleeved shirt, and unruly ponytail.

They walked hand in hand toward reality, dodging an overexcited child with every other step. She glanced up at him, feeling a little annoyed, but he was smiling. He didn’t mind kids.

However, his silence meant something else. He was distracted, his long body sliding into a hunted stride. She’d played this game before and looked around without losing the lighthearted swing of their joined hands. By the way Reno’s smile turned crooked, the Turk in him was coming to the surface in response to a threat.

Then she saw him. A man. A familiar one. Watching them with narrowed eyes. He stood like a statue near the entrance to the casino, his expression dark as a thundercloud.

She frowned, trying to place his face.

Reno let go of her hand and, in full view of the families struggling to get to the amusement park, flipped the guy off. His blue eyes were cold, but he grinned right at the stranger as they passed by.

She burst out laughing. “Stop that!” she giggled. She pulled Reno’s hand down. He put his arm around her waist and kept walking, faster now, toward Gold Saucer’s exit.

“That was the guy from the bar, right?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said.

“It’s more than jealousy, isn’t it?” She allowed him to help her board the ropeway. God, she hated this deathtrap. It was a fifteen-minute trip through hell for her.

“There were five more,” he said in a low voice. He took a seat next to her, slouching back with his long legs blocking the aisle, not caring when she practically climbed into his lap and buried her face and her fists in his jacket, fully expecting the rope to snap and to die when it did. He tilted his head back, scanning the otherwise empty car, the receding station. “All were packing heat. They followed us from the hotel.”

“Who were they?” Surprisingly, she wasn’t worried. This sounded like some Turk thing, and that had nothing to do with her. She was a high school teacher from Cosmo Canyon. Besides, it wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before.

“Yakuza.” He sneered the word. He was quiet for a moment, but then he focused on her. “Would you come to Edge? Just for a couple of days,” he said quickly, already seeing her answer in her face, which she was irritated enough to lift.

“I can’t, Reno, you know that,” she said. “I have to go to work tomorrow, and I don’t want to leave my apartment empty for that long. Plus, I have that meeting with the class trip committee –”

“I don’t like this,” he interrupted. The cable car swung in the wind, which made her squeal and mash her face into his chest. “They could have singled me out, but they didn’t. They were sent to gather information.”

“And they got information on me,” she muttered into his chest. She was starting to sweat now. Crippling fear. Of all the free space beneath the car, not of some silly Turk vs. yakuza thing. “Yeah, I get it. Doesn’t matter. I’m still going home.”

He started to say something else, but it was her turn to interrupt. “Don’t worry about it. Nanaki is there. I’ll put him on watch. If they’re here, then it’s probably because of you, not me.”

The car came to a stop, but, for the first time ever, she didn’t bolt. Instead, she reached up and kissed him. Long and sweet. The driver might have interrupted, but he recognized a Turk when he saw one and wisely busied himself with the ramp. Reno held her, and she could feel him trembling.

_I love you._ The words were there. She’d said them, and she wouldn’t rescind them.

She didn’t wait for him to say the words back to her. She already knew. By the desperation in his eyes, the strength of his arms. She disentangled herself and gathered up her bag. “Call me, okay?”

With a deep, fortifying breath – in with the air of solitude, out with Reno – she began the long trip home.

* * *

“Whoever thought that bringing twenty-five teenagers on a class trip to Costa del Sol was a good idea is a sadistic bastard,” she complained into her phone.

Reno chuckled, a sound that, years after she’d first heard it, still made her heart speed up. “They’re graduating in a couple of days. It’s okay for them to let off steam.”

“I wouldn’t mind them letting off steam so much if I didn’t feel like I’ve developed sudden onset – _Danny, Fred, Lydia, I swear to God, if you don’t put those beers down I’m going kick your asses into next week! Get back to the café!_ – Tourette’s,” she finished ruefully. Three of her charges returned to their lunches and laughing classmates, muttering darkly. “Bar. Not for you,” she said, holding Danny’s rebellious eye. “If I catch you doing that again you’ll find yourself living on the bus until we go home.

“Sorry,” she then said into the phone, but Reno didn’t answer, and she knew he’d jerked his phone away from his ear the second she’d started screaming. “I’m done. Reno?”

“You’re kind of loud, you know,” he said, and she could hear the smile. She was, actually. She wasn’t always on the phone when she started screaming.

“You love it,” she retorted, leaning her forehead against an awning post.

The patio café was an explosion of color, from the bright umbrellas to the riot of flowers. Under the brilliant sun, the beach-goers glistened in their swimsuits and sunglasses. Her kids took all but two tables, laughing and shouting, most of them still dripping from their morning swim. She let her eyes close, feeling the heat soak through her flip flops, the sun warm her face. She squeezed the hard little phone, wishing she could hold him instead. “How’s the job going?”

“We’re about done here. There wasn’t much to do. The yakuza were expecting us. The place is cleaned out.”

“They were expecting you?” She frowned. “That’s odd.”

“Third time.” His voice, which had that slightly echoing timber as if he was standing in an empty warehouse, which he probably was, sounded frustrated.

So these yakuza were staying a step ahead of the Turks. It had been a month, and still, Reno and the others hadn’t been able to pin them down. She bit her bottom lip, trying not to tell him to be careful. He knew what he was doing.

“Rude thinks he found a lead,” Reno said. “I can’t talk about it here, but I’ll let you know as soon as we’ve moved.”

“Okay,” she said.

He hung up without saying goodbye, as was his wont. She sank into her seat, staring at her phone, her mind a million miles away from Costa del Sol.

“Who were you talking to, Miss Coleridge?” a girl called across the café.

“Her boyfriend,” another smugly answered, one of the girls from the cheerleading squad.

There were several gasps. “You have a boyfriend?”

“What’s his name?”

“Can we see him?”

They crowded around her, smelling of sand and suntan lotion, their faces alight with curiosity. The abandoned boys looked on warily.

She laughed. “Sure,” she said, scrolling through her gallery until she found the first picture of Reno she’d ever taken. Shirtless, a mug of coffee in his hand, his hair a mass of spiky, uncombed red, tilted blue eyes wide, his expression caught on the edge of horrified realization. It was the most adorable picture. He didn’t know she still had it.

Her girls broke into squeals, passing the phone around.

“How long have you been going out?” Jillian asked.

“Sometimes, it feels like a hundred years,” she answered, grinning.

“Are you going to get married, Miss Coleridge?” Akiko asked wistfully.

“Uh –” Caught off guard by the question, she laughed again. “No. He isn’t exactly the marrying type.” _But neither am I._

The girls went off in squeals again, only stopping when the male chaperone, Harada, appeared to announce the afternoon’s activities. Chairs scraped as the students stood, gathering trays and trash and half-drunken water bottles. Their voices rose in an excited babble.

Quietly, she closed her phone and put it away, thinking about what she had said. And what she hadn’t.

* * *

Past lights out. When the kids stopped trying to sneak off to make out in the flowerbeds. She considered putting on her running gear but decided to take a moonlit walk on the beach instead. So much sun was exhausting.

Barefoot, she wandered down the shore, letting the waves wash away all trace of her passage. It was beautiful, warm and balmy, the water glowing faintly beneath the moon, the wind combing through her hair and rustling in the palms, the waves rolling onto shore with a sound like muted thunder.

The gunshot shattered the night.

“Dammit, ow,” she half gasped, half groaned, rolling onto her side. She was partly buried in the sand, and the night continued to explode as if the stars had become fireworks.

She sat up, and her phone fell out of her hoodie pocket, the guerrilla glass fractured, its casing curled around the bullet. Breathless, she stared at the silent black chunk of glass and metal, at the loss of all her music and photos. Whoa, déjà vu. Tears welled up in her eyes.

Then she realized that someone was calling to her.

“Ma’am! Are you all right?” More shots cracked overhead.

Was she? Her poor phone had stopped the bullet, but not the killing force. Unable to answer, she dug around in her pockets until she found two things that, like the phone, she always carried with her.

A staff the length of a stick of gum, and Reno’s ring.

She closed her fingers around both and released the mini spell. The staff grew in her hands like a flower blooming on fast forward. Instantly, she activated her mastered restore materia, and then slipped the tough ring over her thumb. As the pain receded, the black trouser legs in front of her swam into focus. She looked up eagerly.

Her mouth dropped open.

“Elena? What are you doing here?”

The petite Turk glanced down at her over her arm, a gun in each hand, and then whipped her head back up and fired twice in quick succession. Two dark shapes fell from the top of the beach house.

“It’s not safe here, ma’am. Can you get up?” Elena asked, always too polite.

She could, so she did, but she was furious. “What the hell is going on?” At least two more Turks appeared on the beach with them, exchanging thoughtful discussion with the swarming, shadowy shapes. Nobody seemed inclined to answer her question, and Elena was definitely busy. “Oh, never mind!” she snarled.

She lifted the staff, and a glowing green circle flared to life in the sand. From the clear sky, blast after blast of purple-white thundaga slammed into the groups of assassins, crackling and booming across the water. Some managed to scream before they died.

Then it was quiet.

Elena blinked and lowered her guns. She and Elena eyed each other, and Elena’s pretty face broke into a smile.

“Nice work, ma’am,” the Turk said, and then she blinked again. She realized Elena was listening to someone chirp at her through the device in her ear. Elena raised her blue eyes.

“Sir, you need to return to the bus,” Elena shouted, waving as she struggled up the sandy slope in her hyper-shined shoes.

Harada coalesced out of the dark, shaking off the Turk who kept trying to steer him away. “I want to know who you think you are, disrupting my class in the middle of the night. It sounded like a battle zone out here. I demand to know what’s going on!”

Coming up behind Elena, she gasped, “Harada! Is everyone okay?” Although Cure2 had healed her, sometimes it took the body a while to figure out it was all right, and she was having trouble breathing.

“Cris!” His eyes widened as he took in her appearance, the wet sand crusted in her hair and clothes, the staff in her hand. “What happened to you?”

“Got shot, down there,” she said, gesturing behind her.

He swelled. “I don’t care if you are Turks!” he bellowed in Elena’s face. “I will not have you attacking my teachers or rounding up my students!”

“Sir,” Elena started, back ramrod straight, but, “No, Harada, it wasn't them,” she said, interrupting the Turk. “They’re here to help us. Elena, did Reno send you?” Now that she wasn’t distracted by gunfire, she could think properly. She had a pretty good idea of who the assassins had been. Elena’s nod confirmed it.

“We are here to replace Red XIII, who is still on station in Cosmo Canyon,” Elena said crisply. Any other day, her referring to Nanaki by his code name as if he was a professional spy would have been funny, but not right then. She grew cold at the thought of why Elena would have contacted him.

The yakuza. It hadn’t been a vendetta against the Turks after all. They were there for her.

Rocked by this revelation, she found it hard to pay attention to what was going on.

“Sir, this location has been compromised,” Elena was saying. “I’m going to have to ask you to take your students back to Cosmo Canyon. We will send an escort.”

Not seeming to listen to Elena, Harada was staring at her instead as if he’d never seen her before, and, with a sinking feeling, she realized why. She was standing there with a bullet hole in her hoodie, a weapon in her hand, and was on a first-name basis with a Turk. Her fist tightened, yielding to the smooth shaft of her staff, the hard ridge of the ring she’d stolen so long ago.

Harada cleared his throat, meek and obedient. Or maybe just repulsed. “The girls are asking for you, Cris. Are you coming?”

“I’m afraid not,” Elena said, her fingers lightly pressing on her earpiece. “Miss Coleridge is now in our custody.”

* * *

“I could come back for the last two weeks and stay through graduation,” she offered, but without believing for one second that he’d accept.

Sure enough, Principal Aimone declined the offer. Harada had gotten home in one piece and had no doubt said some things she wished he hadn’t. She closed her eyes against the memory of the assassins. The ones she’d killed to protect herself, her kids.

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Coleridge,” Mr. Aimone said. “Why don’t you enjoy your summer, take some time off.”

Translation: The school board can’t have anyone associated with the Turks in the halls of Cosmo High. Our children can’t be exposed.

“Yes, sir. Thank you,” she said dully.

“Good luck, Miss Coleridge.”

She would have responded in kind, but he’d already disconnected.

She sat in a cocoon of numbness, the borrowed PHS cradled in her limp hand, as the car turned off the highway and entered Edge proper. She saw nothing but a featureless gray blur beyond the tinted windows.

She’d lost her job. A job that she loved. And most likely would never hold again, not if the school board had anything to say about it. She’d be blacklisted from every school on Gaia from this point forward. Her short-lived career was over. What else was there for someone like her, with a measly GED and no marketable skills?

She couldn’t go home. The yakuza knew of her, were using her to get to Reno and the Turks. They’d tried to kill her out of some vengeance thing, and would no doubt try again.

Reno. Was he safe? They didn’t know. Contact with him and Rude had been lost. Her eyes, which had been dry to this point, filled and spilled over.

Tseng’s slanted eyes lifted from the road and up to the rearview mirror, the red tilak centered between and above them like a target. She pulled her legs onto the seat and buried her face in her knees so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

She’d forgiven Tseng a long time ago. She knew what he meant to Reno, what being a Turk meant. Still, his weren’t the eyes she wanted to see.

To Tseng’s credit, he didn’t ask her to return his PHS, nor did he comment on her breakdown. Displaying a kindness she suspected all the Turks possessed, whether they allowed it to show or not, he smoothly drove along the city streets and let her cry.

* * *

_He isn’t exactly the marrying type._

She followed Tseng into Reno’s apartment, as skittish as the most inept burglar in the world.

“Won’t they know to look for me here?” she asked, dragging her small suitcase with her. It was filled with beach towels, flip flops, her bikini, shorts, tank tops, and suntan lotion. Things that had no place in Edge.

“Probably,” Tseng replied, his sly humor coming through his carefully controlled expression. “We’re not in the habit of providing safe houses. You will be protected here.”

Translation: Don’t try to leave. You won’t get far.

“Right,” she said, looking around. Whatever she’d expected of Reno’s place, it wasn’t this. The apartment seemed reasonably clean, if sparsely furnished. Everything was either black, white, or gray, even the pictures on the walls. She moved to the sliding glass door that opened onto a balcony but left it closed. Like her, he preferred the top floor.

“We’ll be in touch,” Tseng said.

“Thank you,” she said, trying to shake off her brevity but failing. She didn’t know what to say. Because Tseng – cold, aloof Tseng – was worried, too.

He nodded once and left.

The feeling of being an intruder increased as soon as the door closed. She went over to it and locked it, sealing herself in. She wandered through the rooms – two bedrooms, one bath, all exuding a faint air of neglect – that belonged to someone else. It was a bachelor’s pad, that was for sure. The extra room contained exercise equipment, the unframed pictures displaying an old karate action movie star, Bruce Something-or-other. Reno’s admitted hero. A computer setup, desk, and chair were squashed into one end of his bedroom, and she critically eyed the fleece blanket tacked to the wall behind the bed that depicted a white tiger. At least it wasn’t a poster of some big-breasted woman. She kept exploring, discovering a tiny washer-dryer taking up space in a closeted corner of the bathroom.

In the end, she dumped all of her clothing in and started the washer, but couldn’t bring herself to unpack anything else. She would take a shower. Later. When it wasn’t so weird. Naked, she went to Reno’s closet and selected one of his white dress shirts, rolling up the sleeves so she could use her hands.

God, it smelled like him.

She wanted desperately to break this isolation. To call her best friend, Yuffie. Or 7th Heaven. Surely, Tifa could help. And Cloud, if he was there. But Reno’s PHS was with him, wherever he was, and her phone had been left on the beach.

In the kitchen, she received a pleasant surprise. There, tacked on the refrigerator, was a picture of her. She didn’t know when it had been taken, but she was smiling at something in the blue-sky distance, the sun in her hair, flowers and green grass around her feet. The photo was wrinkled as if it had often been handled.

Was her problem that Reno wasn’t the kind of guy to make a lifelong commitment? Look at what he’d done as a Turk. If that wasn’t commitment, she didn’t know what was. Or was it her? Was she so caught up in her perfect snapshot life that she’d shut him out?

Why hadn’t she let him go so he could find someone better? Was love really that self-centered?

Being there in his neat but lonely home, where the only color was caged in this dog-eared photograph, she realized what a fool she had been. How quickly her carefully constructed life had fallen apart! How long she had selfishly kept him here, in a place without cheer or –

Or food. She opened the fridge and stood staring at the cavernous interior. There was a single bottle of beer on one shelf, and, inexplicably, a small award from Shin-Ra on another.

She started to laugh. _Oh, Reno . . ._

So she did what he probably had done countless times before: She went online and ordered a pizza. She dragged his blankets off his bed, drank his beer while she ate on his couch, and fell asleep to a movie on his TV.

* * *

Someone was holding her hand.

She swam out of unconsciousness with difficulty. She always slept like the dead after she’d been crying.

“Reno?” she mumbled, disoriented, trying to raise her head. The TV was still on, throwing bluish shadows across the walls.

“Shh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Reno!” She shot upright. “Oh, my God, it is you!”

“Yeah.” A corner of his mouth hitched, but his eyes were wary. Unsure.

She launched herself at him, knocking him flat across his own couch, her arms locked around his neck. She felt his chuckle.

“It’s okay, Cris. It’s over. We got them.”

“Rude?” she asked into his collarbone.

“He’s fine.”

She let go so she could see his face. Suddenly, she felt shy. “Welcome home,” she murmured.

Something in his eyes changed. They turned playful, cocky. A look she hadn’t seen in far too long.

“I could get used to that,” he said. He kissed her. His hands ran up under the shirt, and he smiled against her lips when he discovered no resistance underneath it. “I’d kind of like to earn this, though.”

She was slender enough that she didn’t need to unbutton the shirt. She pulled it over her head and dropped it on the floor.

His hands were already busy, as was his mouth, before she lowered her arms. He kissed her jaw, her throat, a breast, a nipple. Then he stayed there, causing her breath to hitch, her thoughts to scatter. When he pushed her to the side and repositioned himself so that his weight pressed her into the cushions, she couldn’t object. Not that she’d want to, not when things fit together so nicely. The muscles in his back contracted and expanded under her hands, and he was saying something in her ear.

_“I love you.”_

Happiness crashed through her as she started the familiar, slow, pleasurable spiral of lovemaking. Unusually quiet, full of love and of him, she held on and let it take her.


	3. Of The End

Reno stood outside the bar with his hands in his pockets. He sighed. The sun had gone down, but the sky was still a gray twilight that never truly left, and he could read the sign just fine. This was Edge, and yet the Lockhart babe had given her restaurant the same name as the original: 7th Heaven. Ha, ha.

Was there anyone left who got it?

Car doors slammed behind him. President Shinra got out last, not acknowledging as Tseng closed his door behind him.

With a smirk, the President swept past Reno, pulling Elena and Rude after him like a child with toys on a string. Reno automatically followed.

Partying with his boss. This was a first.

“Welcome!” Lockhart shouted from behind the expansive, gleaming wooden bar as soon as they walked in, but Reno doubted they’d be able to hear her if she said anything else. Conversations and the background music created a sort of living atmosphere that made conversation impossible.

Even though he’d been there before, he was surprised at what Lockhart had pulled off. Like most of Edge’s business district, the building's façade was a patchwork of sheet metal cannibalized from Midgar, the foundation placed by the zoning commission to artfully hide the ruins of the old city. Inside, it was a haven of cleanliness, with real wood tables and chairs, brass and mirrors, framed pictures on the white walls, fans lazily turning overhead amidst the exposed ceiling beams and ventilation system.

7th Heaven was popular with the locals, offering good food and better booze. The President had reserved the whole establishment for the evening. It was a company-wide celebration, and many of Shin-Ra’s employees were already taking advantage of a Friday night and the boss’s generosity.

Reno couldn’t help it. As they filed past the bar and Lockhart gave them a dazzling smile, he nudged Rude with his elbow.

The look Rude gave him could have soured beer, but Reno snickered into his fist. Even after all this time, his partner nursed a soft spot for her, but there was a figure at the far end of the bar, drinking in a little island of solitude, who always had and always would stand in the way. As they watched, Lockhart leaned on the counter near the register, listening to something Strife said that made her laugh, and Rude, his face impassive, kept walking.

It wasn’t a surprise to Reno that Strife was there. He lived above the restaurant, after all. There should be some kids running around somewhere, too. Wallace, busy in the field searching for oil, drifted in and out like Strife with his crazy, one-man delivery service. Tseng kept tabs on them, of course. Cozy setup they had. Like a bizarre family. Reno rubbed the back of his neck, hoping he’d get some of that booze, and soon.

The back area was quieter. Fewer Shin-Ra employees, the designers, coders, and engineers that all wanted to shake Rufus’s hand, to congratulate him over and over, and more privacy. The President slid smoothly into a half booth, Reno and the others joining him.

Elena was the first to speak, fervent and star struck. “You did it, Mr. President. Congratulations.” Sitting between Tseng and Rude, she looked like a doll, the top of her head below their shoulders. Not that she’d ever let her size stop her. Reno felt a surge of affection for her. For all of them. They were his family.

“Shin-Ra Electric is back in the investor’s eye,” Tseng agreed soberly.

Reno turned a chuckle into a cough. That one had come out of the new marketing department. Shorten the name. Change the product.

It was all gimmickry. How did the new slogan go? _Imagination. Creativity. Passion. Quality. Excitement. Shin-Ra Electric._ Some mouthful, but it had worked. The President would never bring the company back to the days of his grandfather when it manufactured motor vehicles, nor could he bear to have it limp along in the electric power business. He’d come up with something better. Give the people products that were meant to be fun, unique, and memorable, and were something they never knew existed until they saw one – then they had to have it. It was genius.

“Congratulations,” Rude rumbled.

Reno’s hand lay flat on the table. No drinks. There was something very wrong with that. He slouched back in his seat, scrubbing the back of his head. “Nice one, boss.”

“Thank you,” the President said, smiling. 

He went on to say something else about how they’d all contributed something to their success, but Reno, tapping his finger on the empty table, wasn’t paying attention.

He couldn’t figure out why they were here. Why 7th Heaven? Being this close to Strife and Lockhart was making him think of her. But she wasn’t there. She’d left him again. Disappeared back to Cosmo Canyon.

Damn it, where were those drinks?

He tilted his chair back on two legs, wishing he could have gone home.

Then their server breezed up. “Welcome, folks. Sorry about the wait,” she said cheerily, leaning past Reno to toss napkins on the table like a dealer in a casino.

He nearly fell over backward.

Rude and Cristobel caught him, each grabbing an arm and hauling him upright. Cristobel was laughing.

“Hi,” she said. Then, as if she did this every day, she turned back to the table and started taking orders. “Would you like to open a tab?” she asked, accepting a pile of menus from the President.

Tseng produced a shiny silver card that had Rufus’s name on it, which she took with a smile.

Reno found his voice. “What’re you doing here?”

She made a kissy face at him that earned a cough from Rude. “I work here. Be right back with those drinks.”

“You – but – you –” But she was gone. Reno couldn’t seem to close his mouth.

Suddenly, Rude reached over and delivered a backhanded swat that would have knocked Elena right over. Reno jumped and looked down at him, realizing that he’d gotten to his feet. Rude tilted his head at Reno’s chair, his expression clear: _Sit down and shut the hell up._

Even Tseng was smiling. Utterly bewildered, Reno sank into his seat. The President continued talking as if there had been no interruption.

Reno watched her all night in a daze. He didn’t notice the time passing, or how many drinks he downed. Cristobel and the kid – what was his name? Denzel? – never seemed to stop moving. Or smiling. He knew that smile. She was enjoying herself, feeding on the energy of her customers. She was wearing what looked like a schoolgirl’s plaid skirt, short and pleated, and a pair of combat boots. Her legs flashed as she navigated the tables with trays of food or drink. That was hot. Even better was the chain around her neck, and the ring hanging from it. His ring. Which she made sure every guy who hit on her could see.

It took the President saying, “Reno! Monday. Don’t be late,” for him to realize that they were leaving. Without him.

He got to his feet in a hurry. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

“You okay over there?” she called across the bar.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be done in a sec, just let me put this away.” She upended the last chair over a table, took a swipe under it with a mop, and then vanished in the back. He hadn’t seen Lockhart or Strife for a while and guessed he wasn’t going to when she reappeared and flicked off most of the lights. “You ready? Let’s go.”

She locked up, shrugging on her patched hoodie, and then slipped her hand into his. “This way,” she said, pointing down the street.

He didn’t ask where they were going. He didn’t question why she was there. For once, he was leaving a bar under his own power, and that whole brain-mouth filter thing was still in effect. He waited for her to speak first.

Turning down a side street, she did. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise. They all knew, you know.”

He nodded. The night was cool. Her hand was warm.

“Anyway, after I lost my job,” she said, and then paused as if to stop herself from saying too much, but he winced, anyway. Yet another thing that was his fault. “Yeah. I couldn’t stay there. So I called Tifa and asked her for help. It’s just up here.”

She sped up, crossing the street on a diagonal into a residential neighborhood. “She gave me a job. Reeve helped me find a place. Cloud and Barret helped me move.”

“You live here?” It was two-thirty in the morning. He was having an out of body experience. Or he was dreaming. There was no other way to explain this.

She jumped up the front steps to an apartment building, short skirt flouncing, and let herself into the lobby. “Yeah. Well – you’ll see. Come on, stairs.”

He smirked. Well, if it was a dream, it was a damn realistic one. After that one time, he’d never been able to get her back into an elevator.

So they climbed several flights together, their footsteps echoing in the stairwell. She went straight to the door marked 6B, unlocked it, and disappeared ahead of him.

Curious, he went in. Like hotels, apartments tended to all look the same. Different room dimensions and placement of windows, but not much other than that. She stood in the middle of the space that separated her living room from her dining room, her hands clasped in front of her, green eyes wide and uncertain.

“It’s a two bedroom,” she said, almost apologetically. “I couldn’t afford bigger than that. But I sold a lot of stuff, so there’s room . . .”

She trailed off, but he’d given up on trying to understand what was going on. After a moment, she took a deep breath and tossed something small and brass at him.

He caught it. Stared at it lying in his palm.

A key.

“If you want it,” she said. “If you want it, then, welcome home, Reno.”

He reached her in two strides, seizing her around the middle with both arms and lifting her up. She squealed, locking her arms around his neck.

“Does that mean you want it?” she asked.

“Yes.” He wasn’t going to put her down, even though she’d started kicking her feet. “Yo. I love you.”

She giggled. “I love you, too . . . yo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I have a few acknowledgments to make.
> 
> First and foremost, to The Sharper Image / Iconix Brand Group, with apologies.
> 
> 5/18/2014 – 5/29/2014


End file.
